


Madness

by s0mmerspr0ssen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hostage Situation, M/M, Public Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-25
Updated: 2011-08-25
Packaged: 2017-10-23 01:33:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0mmerspr0ssen/pseuds/s0mmerspr0ssen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The situation was oddly unspectacular for a mad genius like Moriarty, John thought. There was a bunch of brawny thugs, there were tied-up hostages and there were guns. Quite ordinary for a villain. Something John and Sherlock encountered at least once a month.</p><p>Unless, of course, one counted in the latest order that had left Moriarty's mouth: "I said: undress him."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Madness

"Undress him."

There were no red dots this time, dancing over their bodies as an unspoken threat, nor any strap-on bombs to add to the drama. The situation was oddly unspectacular for a mad genius like Moriarty, John thought.

There was a bunch of brawny thugs, there were tied-up hostages and there were guns. Quite ordinary for a villain. Something John and Sherlock encountered at least once a month.

Unless, of course, one counted in the latest order that had left Moriarty's mouth.

"I said: _undress him_."

Moriarty looked as crazy as ever in his immaculate suit, dark eyebrows raised and mouth twisted into an ugly mix of grinning and snarling. He was a lunatic. An absolute lunatic.

Next to John, Sherlock visibly tensed.

"No!" he snapped in response, hands curling into fists by his side.

It was only around Moriarty that Sherlock let his barriers fall completely. Moriarty could rile him up, knew how to push all of his buttons and Sherlock, who prided himself in being controlled, even emotionless, let himself be pushed and prodded every single time.

It had started as a game many months ago, with the phone and the five pips. It had long since ceased to be fun, even for Sherlock. John knew that. It was what scared him most right now. What they needed at the moment was Sherlock's clarity of thought, his cool logic.

"Sherlock," John told him quietly. "Do it. Undress me."

The look Sherlock gave him could only be described as incredulous.

"Listen to your little pet. For once, he's being smarter than you, Sherlock."

Sherlock ignored the criminal in favour of staring at John.

"Sherlock," John hissed. "There are _guns_ pointed at the temples of three people at the moment. Three people we _know_."

For the first time in what seemed to be forever, Sherlock's gaze flickered over to where the hostages were sitting on the floor next to the bloody, lifeless body of a woman. Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson were quite pale but for the most part, they seemed determined not to show any fear. John had to admit he was surprised and impressed with the defiant look on Anderson's face. He had expected him to start crying or throw up.

They had been called to this crime scene late at night to help out with the case. The woman had been killed cleanly, efficiently, not leaving a single trace of DNA or other clues to work with. By then, most of the Scotland Yard team had been gone and Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson had merely been waiting for the clean-up team to arrive.

It never did.

The murder had turned out to be yet another trap by Moriarty. Lately, more and more incidents involving the consulting criminal had been happening. Maybe the man was bored. Maybe he liked to see this new, _feeling_ side on Sherlock. John wasn't sure.

"I _know_ , John!" Sherlock retorted but clearly, he had all but forgotten about the hostages until John had pointed them out to him.

This wasn't good. Sherlock had to pull himself together, had to _think_. There had to be a way to get out of here and chances were that only Sherlock could figure it out.

John and Sherlock weren't tied-up, could move freely but John didn't have his gun. Still - there _had_ to be something they could do to escape.

As for now, complying with Moriarty seemed to be the best move. There was already one body on the floor of the abandoned office building. John knew Moriarty wouldn't hesitate to add another, simply to make a point, simply because he _could_.

"No, no, you don't seem to know, Sherlock," Moriarty said and his voice was low, dangerous. "If you knew, if you understood, you'd be doing what I say. I'll shoot your little colleagues in the heads if you don't do what I say, darling." A distinct pause. " _Undress. John._ "

And finally, Sherlock seemed to receive the message. He turned side-ways so he was fully facing John and slowly lifted his hands to unzip John's jacket. The noise seemed strangely loud, echoing through the room.

"Very good," Moriarty mock-praised him. "Go on. Remove that _hideous_ jumper. Honestly, John, where _do_ you find clothes this ugly and unflattering?"

Trying to ignore the criminal's voice, John focused on Sherlock's movements, helping him along by raising his arms. He wasn't sure what Moriarty had planned. Maybe humiliating him in front of the police. Maybe torturing him.

John closed his eyes as his jumper was carefully pulled over his head by Sherlock.

Not thinking about it probably was the best thing John could do at the moment. Denial to help him keep his sanity. As long as possible, until help would arrive or Sherlock had made a plan.

Underneath the jumper, John was wearing a plain, white shirt. Sherlock got rid of it quickly, swiftly dropping it onto the small pile on the floor. Chilly air hit John's bare chest and he couldn't help but shiver. It was night and the abandoned building hadn't been heated in what had to be years. It was _cold_.

"Come on, Sherlock, don't be slow. The _shoes_."

John watched Sherlock close his eyes briefly, watched him clench his teeth, but then, after a quick look at the hostages, he lowered himself to his knees to untie John's shoes.

"Look at you, _kneeling_ in front of your pet. One might think _you_ 're the devoted little dog, Sherlock. Why don't you pet him on the head, John, hm?"

It sounded innocent enough but John recognised an order when he heard one. His eyes wandered over to where the hostages were sitting and he met Lestrade's narrowed eyes. John knew the DI wasn't really blaming him for this and yet - the look felt _accusing_ , somehow. Lifting his hand and carefully avoiding everyone's face, John let his hand sink onto the dark curls, awkwardly petting them.

Moriarty's laugh rang in his ears.

John could feel Sherlock tug at his foot and John lifted his legs one by one so the shoes could be removed, all the while stroking Sherlock's hair.

"Don't forget the _so-_ hocks," Moriarty sing-songed and John had to bite his lips not to make any kind of noise when Sherlock's long fingers brushed over the soles of his feet.

The floor was icy against his skin and goosebumps rose all over John's arms at the contact, the little light hairs standing at attention.

Sherlock was about to stand up again but Moriarty _tsk_ ed.

"No, no, _stay_ on your knees. I quite like the imagery. Sherlock Holmes, the great consulting detective, groveling."

John could feel Sherlock tense, obviously about to snap at Moriarty. But John didn't want to risk it, not when they were at the criminal's mercy like this. If it had only been their own lives at stakes, maybe. But not with the hostages there. His hand was still resting on Sherlock's head and as unobtrusive as possible, John brushed his thumb over Sherlock's scalp to soothe him, to tell him to keep calm.

John could hear him growl quietly in frustration, but he didn't get up, didn't turn to yell at Moriarty.

"His trousers, Sherlock. Really, do I have to talk you through this step by step?"

Sherlock's hands came to rest on John's fly. It was intimate, _too_ intimate, and John's breath hitched involuntarily when Sherlock opened the button. Sherlock risked a glance upwards and met John's eyes. The look on his face clearly spoke of how uncomfortable this was making him.

"Briefs," Moriarty giggled and Sherlock's thumbs slipped into the space between John's hips and the soft fabric, brushing over his hip bones.

John could see Sherlock close his eyes and pull.

He'd been in the army, had played rugby when he was younger, so John wasn't self-conscious about being naked in front of other people. Yes, it wasn't comfortable, but nothing truly terrible, nothing he couldn't deal with. Just skin and flesh and they were all adults here who had undoubtedly seen their fair share of nudity in their lives.

Being naked wasn't what made him uncomfortable. Being undressed by a kneeling Sherlock was what made this truly humiliating.

Sherlock, who had pulled down John's trouser and briefs at once, helped John stepping out of them and threw them onto the pile on the floor, visibly relieved that this part was over.

"Well done, Sherlock. You may get up and undress yourself."

John's eyes snapped over to where Moriarty was standing. He could no longer ignore the implications of this. Sherlock undressing him, he could put off as some weird power game. Sherlock getting naked as well - John didn't want to think about that.

Couldn't.

Apparently, John wasn't the only one with a terrifying thought in his head.

"What the _bloody_ hell is wrong with you, _you freak_!"

For once, Sally Donovan wasn't directing the well-used insult at Sherlock but at Moriarty. John, until now so carefully avoiding the police's eyes at all costs, watched her pretty face screw up in a nasty scowl, dark curls flying as she angrily turned her head.

The beefy man holding one of the guns shifted behind her but Moriarty seemed amused and raised his hand at him as a sign to stay still.

"Do you enjoy the show, Sergeant Donovan?" Of course, he'd know her name. "I thought it'd be to your liking. Look at him! Sherlock Holmes, _naked_. Didn't you always want to see him taken down a notch, see him humiliated?"

She flushed and next to her, Lestrade seemed to murmur something. She closed her mouth with a quick glance at the pointed guns.

John looked back to where Sherlock had just finished undressing himself. He was tall, pale and way too skinny for his own good. The doctor in John automatically tried to estimate how much weight he'd have to put on to be healthy. One and a half stone, at least. Already, Sherlock was shivering worse than John.

Moriarty's eyes were all but _glued_ to Sherlocks body. The criminal was stepping closer for the first time, giving him a once-over. John got the distinct feeling the man was getting off on this, was even attracted to Sherlock.

When his eyes moved to John, it took all of John's self-control not to flinch, turn and run. The look in Moriarty's eyes was positively predatory.

"I must say I'm a big fan of you two. _Obsessed_ , one might say. I'm constantly watching you, how you _dance_ around each other. Clearly, you're just _meant_ to be together."

And now, John really, _really_ couldn't avoid thinking about the possible outcome of this situation anymore and a sick, twisted feeling expanded in his stomach, making him want to throw up on the spot.

"So, I thought I'd do some match-making. Both of you, naked - the _perfect_ conditions, wouldn't you agree?"

"You're a sick _bastard_ ," Sherlock hissed at him and Moriarty laughed once more.

It sounded mad. Absolutely _mental_.

"Maybe so," he eventually replied, acting as if he was brushing a tear of mirth off his cheek. "No matter, though. Get on with it. _Fuck him_ , Sherlock. Go and fuck your little pet."

Even though John had secretly known, had anticipated Moriarty's orders, nothing could have prepared him for the impact of those words. He staggered backwards a bit as if he'd actually been hit by something physically and he took in a harsh breath. A few meters to his right, he could hear Donovan's cry of outrage and something that sounded like a muffled whimper from Anderson. John didn't dare to check for Lestrade's reaction.

Sherlock looked absolutely furious and as if he was about to strangle Moriarty.

"I refuse to do this," he hissed, shaking his head vehemently.

Suddenly, any trace of sick joy vanished from Moriarty's face.

"Listen carefully," he replied, eyes suddenly narrowed, head moving a bit like a cobra about to attack. "I won't hesitate to shoot your three little friends over there and _then_ make you fuck him at gunpoint. I won't hesitate to tell _my men_ to do it if you still don't comply. This is _my_ game and _I_ make the rules. You'll play or pay the price."

Sherlock swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing. For what seemed to be minutes, Moriarty and he were simply looking at each other.

Then his eyes, pale and intense, moved to look at John and the silent apology in them nearly made John throw up after all. Reflexively gulping down the urge to do just that, John started to shiver in all honesty. He didn't mean to, knew that he had to look like a scared deer caught in the headlights but his control was slipping. He was about to be- about to be-

Sherlock moved and John couldn't help but back away.

He could hear Moriarty chuckle, once more perversely amused at the situation now that Sherlock was playing along. John couldn't help but let his eyes wander down on Sherlock. The detective wasn't aroused by the situation which was at least somewhat comforting. Not that John had thought- but-

"John, stop!" was all Sherlock said and John forced himself to a halt, to stand still while Sherlock quickly crossed the rest of the space.

His hands moved and came to rest onto John's shoulders and it took all of his remaining self-control not to flinch too violently. Sherlock's fingers, however, were surprisingly warm and even a tad comforting on his otherwise chilly skin and John took a couple of deep breaths before he could give Sherlock a brief, tight nod.

"I-I don't know what to do," Sherlock whispered and he sounded truly lost. It scared John to no end. "If we don't-"

He didn't need to finish the sentence. John threw a quick look at the hostages but hurriedly returned his eyes to Sherlock's face when he was met by equally concerned, shocked and slightly disgusted stares.

"I'm _waiii_ -ting," Moriarty lilted and John took another deep breath.

"Let's do it," he said, surprised at the determination in his own voice. "I can deal with it. Just- do it."

Sherlock eyed him for a long moment, searching his face for something. Traces of doubt? Fear? John didn't know, didn't need to know. This all came down to trust, didn't it? And he did trust Sherlock. He did.

Finally, Sherlock squeezed his shoulders and let go, one hand moving to grab John's right. He carefully pulled him forward and closer to Moriarty. When he spoke up, his voice was calm, collected.

"Fine. Where do you want us?"

John had to stifle the incredible urge to _laugh_ at Sherlock's choice of words. Perhaps, it was the relief John was feeling over Sherlock's returning calmness. Or a protective mechanism of his psyche to help him endure this. Who knew.

"The floor should do nicely," Moriarty said, grinning frighteningly wide, and with a last calculating look at the hostages, Sherlock guided John to lie on the ground.

It was cold against the skin of John's back and he trembled, pressing his teeth together to keep himself from chattering. Sherlock's long, pale body was over him seconds later, placing one hand next to John's head to prop himself up. The other hand was free to do- _oh!_

With a grimace, Sherlock had started licking his own palm, wetting it with saliva, then curled his hand around his flaccid cock.

And now, thinking _cock_ , thinking the actual _word_ , John couldn't stop the panic that was threatening to overwhelm him. Because Moriarty expected Sherlock to- to _fuck_ -

From the look of pity and guilt Sherlock was giving him, his fear and utter panic was clearly evident on John's face.

Then, Sherlock closed his eyes. He still wasn't even remotely aroused and was obviously trying to picture _something_ that would get him excited in spite of the circumstances. John looked away and to the side so he didn't have to watch. He'd give him some mock-form of privacy.

It was a mistake, because looking to the side meant looking directly at Anderson. Anderson, whose eyes were wide and horrified as he stared at the pair of them, mouth agape in pure shock. At least, next to him, Donovan had the decency to look away, pale around the nose but cheeks flushed. Lestrade was busy glaring at Moriarty, probably hoping that looks could kill after all.

It hit John then that they'd _see_ , that they'd _know,_ and John couldn't stop a whimper from escaping his throat. It was pathetic and Sherlock's eyes snapped open immediately, losing what little arousal he had managed to achieve with his half-hearted wanking.

"So-sorry," John whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. "Sorry. I'll tr-try to b-be qu-quiet."

He was stuttering now, _stuttering_. John hadn't stuttered ever since primary school when everything had been new and frightening and all he had wanted to do was to run home to his parents.

He could hear Sherlock shift, but John kept his eyes shut firmly. Sherlock was pretending, so could he. John was a doctor. He knew the mechanics, knew he would have to be relaxed to keep himself from being injured. He tried to think of past relationships, past girlfriends but it didn't help. After a minute, John was still tense, still trembling.

Maybe this was the wrong approach?

John didn't have much experience with men but a bit of drunk groping and a horribly awkward kiss in Afghanistan that had been caused by equal parts adrenaline and loneliness. He tried to imagine Sherlock and himself somewhere else, at Baker Street maybe, in John's bed. He tried to imagine soft touches, loving kisses, tender teasing.

It helped. He didn't get aroused, not even slightly, but he did relax. It helped him to remember that this was _Sherlock_ and that he would be careful, would take it slow, would try to make it as bearable as possible in the given circumstances.

Eventually, when his breathing had evened out and John was sure he had gotten somewhat used to the mental picture of an aroused Sherlock looming over him, he opened his eyes.

He was expecting it so Sherlock's hardening erection and flushed face wasn't a big shock. On some twisted level he was actually relieved Sherlock was being successful, because John didn't want to know about the other options Moriarty could think of. Moriarty who was being strangely quiet.

John tried to look past Sherlock who was still stroking himself, lost in whatever fantasy he had emerged himself in, but he couldn't see the criminal's face, only his trousers and shiny shoes. John wondered once more if he was getting off on this, if this was what the man masturbated to, sick fantasies of Sherlock fucking John because Moriarty made him. It sounded horribly likely.

Eventually, Sherlock opened his eyes, cock hard and even a bit moist at the tip. His eyes were slightly glazed with arousal and John's neck prickled strangely when Sherlock's hazy eyes locked with his own. Sherlock was handsome in a way, John could acknowledge that, the dark hair in contrast with his light and even complexion.

"Prepare him."

John jerked when Moriarty's excited voiced all but pierced his ears. The criminal had moved, was now watching them from the side, standing opposite of the hostages. John could see his dirty grin and the obvious bulge in his tailored trousers. John had been right. He _was_ getting off on this. Very much so.

Sherlock blinked, obviously trying to keep himself aroused in spite of hearing Moriarty gloat. He moved his fingers to his mouth once more, probably to get more saliva to follow Moriarty's orders.

"No. I want _John_ to slick up your fingers."

John's eyes widened just as Sherlock stopped dead, head snapping up to look at Moriarty after all, who simply jerked his head at them as if to say _Get a move on!_

Sherlock swallowed audibly.

Then, he looked back at John and his expression turned so crestfallen, so _guilty_ , that John didn't want to make it any worse for him. Yes, it was a revolting thought, because those fingers had been around Sherlock's cock just moments ago and John _really_ didn't like that thought, but at least John could just lie here and take it whereas Sherlock had to do the actual deed, had to violate John just because Moriarty said so.

"It's all right," John whispered and kept his mouth open, inviting.

Blinking harshly, Sherlock pressed his fingers into John's mouth.

Nostrils flaring a bit, John sucked lightly at Sherlock's fingers, trying to get them as slick as possible as quickly as he could. Sherlock had closed his eyes once more, probably trying to turn this into a part of his fantasy which was just fine with John. Anything to make this more bearable, for _either_ of them. Sherlock was as much a victim as he was. He had to try and remember that.

"Enough," Moriarty barked eventually and the smacking, wet sound Sherlock's finger created when leaving John's mouth made John shiver.

Then, those very fingers were in between his buttocks, seeking his entrance and even though John had promised himself to keep calm, to stay relaxed, he tensed and squirmed, his instinct taking over, forcing him to try and escape.

When the first finger pushed into him, John took in a harsh breath and squeezed his eyes shut once more. It burned, it felt _awful_ , this wasn't _right_ , this wasn't supposed to _happen_.

He could hear Sherlock whisper a broken "Sorry." and told himself that it would be fine, that it was _Sherlock_ , Sherlock he could _trust_. He couldn't go back into the truly relaxed state, but when more fingers pushed past the ring of muscle, the burn decreased at least a bit and John could manage to lie still, to simply feel the sensation of being touched _there_ , of being prepared and stretched.

When the fingers disappeared, John opened his eyes. Sherlock had curled his hand around his cock once more, which had lost some of his hardness and had to be squeezed a few times to make this whole thing possible.

When his erection had fully returned, Sherlock moved and shifted and John, with horrible clarity, realised that this was _the moment._

It hurt. It hurt like hell because no amount of spit was enough to make this comfortable, to make this okay, and John bit down on his lips to keep himself from screaming. He was being filled by Sherlock whose face had scrunched up in a mix of guilty pleasure at the friction and probably the horrible knowledge that he was forcing John into this, that he was _raping_ his friend.

When Sherlock started to move, lying still and biting his lip was no longer an option for John.

He squirmed against his better judgement. He struggled and trashed and protested and at some point, Sherlock's hands curled around his upper arms, holding him down and why, _why_ was there suddenly a spark of _something_ each time Sherlock pushed into him?

John wasn't aroused exactly, how could he be, but the tiny sparks of pleasure made John feel horribly disgusted with himself. He hated that on some level, his body was still trying to enjoy this violation, was trying to make this okay and _oh God_ , had that been a twitch of his own cock?

Somewhere to his right, John could hear sobs that sounded an awful lot like Donovan and low murmuring, probably Lestrade trying to comfort her.

"Touch him, Sherlock," Moriarty said, sounding breathless, and John didn't have to turn his head to know that he was probably touching himself through the fabric of his trouser. "Touch him."

One of the hands that had been curling painfully around his upper arms lost its grip. Sherlock stopped pounding into him for a moment and John could feel Sherlock's cock pulsate inside of him. John's own cock gave another, horribly interested twitch.

Moist fingers brushed over John's balls, neatly cupping John's manhood and then, Sherlock was moving again, simultaneously stroking John in the process.

John thought he could hear himself beg Sherlock to stop, to let go off him, but there was a slightly slick thumb brushing over the slit at the top and suddenly, it felt okay, a tiny bit good even and John's eyes fluttered open and close at the sensation.

John never got truly erect, didn't even come remotely close to an orgasm, but when Sherlock eventually climaxed, hot, sticky semen shooting into John, it was more of a moan than an objection that passed John's lips.

Sherlock half-collapsed over him, sweating slightly and his hair brushing over John's neck and shoulder. The doctor in John suddenly wondered whether or not Sherlock was tested, whether or not John should be worried about having caught something from him.

But then, Sherlock made a sound so very much like a sob that it distracted John from whatever his brain was telling him about STDs and anal infections. The detective pulled out of John, maybe a bit too quickly and John could suddenly understand the choked apologies that were whispered into his good shoulder where Sherlock was pressing his face into John's skin.

"SorrysorryJohnIam _so_ sorryohGod _please_..."

It was an endless string of words and John, fighting off a wave off disgust and irrational anger at Sherlock who couldn't actually be blamed, managed to raise his hand and pet Sherlock's back awkwardly, as if to soothe him. Slowly, the whirl of emotion died down, leaving John with - nothing.

He wasn't feeling anything.

It was the sound of clapping and a manic giggle that eventually helped John remember just where he was and who he had to thank for the burning in his arse and the heap of half-sobbing misery on his chest.

"Well done, well _done_!" Moriarty all but screamed, sounding absolutely hysterical. John could see, even from his awkward angle, that Moriarty's erection had _mysteriously_ vanished. It made John sick to think of the reason. "Perfect, absolutely perfect. Well, I _must_ take my leave now. Appointments over appointments, unfortunately, I'd _love_ to stay for a chat, my dears."

Sherlock's head shot up. There were no actual tears on his face, but his eyes were red-rimmed and oh, so very _angry_. John had never seen Sherlock look like this. There was _murder_ in his eyes.

"I'll get you," he whispered, struggling to get up and staggering over John in the process. He was naked, his legs sticky and soiled, but somehow, he still looked like a real threat, like the embodiment of rage as he was facing Moriarty. "I'll get you for this."

Moriarty just laughed, nodding at his men that moved away from the hostages who looked more horrified than ever. John didn't dare to look to closely, but there were definitely tears glistening on more than one face.

"I'll be looking forward," Moriarty assured him gleefully, but John thought he could hear the slightest trace of a tremble in the words.

Excitement? _Fear?_

Propping himself on his elbows, careful not to move to much, John sat up a bit to get a better look as Moriarty left with his henchmen, chuckling and sniggering all the way out of the room. John's upper arms were throbbing where Sherlock has grabbed him, his back was still numb and cold where he had been pressed against the floor. He could hear sniffling from his right but didn't turn to look. He had the feeling it wasn't just Donovan.

He couldn't face anyone at the moment. John was still waiting for his inevitable break-down, for the bulk of events to crush down and turn _him_ into a pile of sobbing apologies and pleas. He risked a look at the lifeless body of the woman, lying in her blood in a corner. She had to die to make this whole event possible.

John felt about as dead as she was.

"I need my phone," Sherlock announced to the room at large.

John blinked at him and when he spoke, his voice was raspy from his screamed protests.

"Now? What for?"

Sherlock turned, staring down at him, still naked and hair as wild as his eyes.

"To call Mycroft. I'm sure he'll _love_ to be of help. He's always enjoyed a good hunt."  
____  
 _fin._


End file.
